


If I Only Could

by Squishy_TRex



Category: Epic (2013)
Genre: Angst, Depressing Subject Matter, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-15 15:18:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4611603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squishy_TRex/pseuds/Squishy_TRex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Grief is the price we pay for love."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Denial

“No.”

Nod looked resolutely at the ground, his hands clenched into fists. He refused to look at Ronin’s face. A face full of pity, love, regret, and truth. If he looked at that face he would have to believe the words he just heard.

And he couldn’t do that.

“You’re wrong. Tha- that didn’t happen. He’s not….” The word welled up inside him, got caught in his throat halfway through, came out in a small voice, a croak. “Dead.”

Nod could hear movement, Ronin trying to move closer.

“Nod-,” Ronin started. Nod made the mistake of looking at him. Seeing in his eyes the undeniable truth of what had happened. Nod had never seen a more sorrowful look on Ronin’s face.

“I’m sorry.”

No. No no no no no. It wasn’t real, this wasn’t happening. Nod could feel his chest tighten, the air forced out his lungs. He could feel his breaths coming in gasps. His body was going to explode; he couldn’t be here.

Nod did the only thing he could. He ran.

Running through the forest, he paid no attention to the voices behind him. Time seemed to slow down, the world became nothing but a blur. He crashed through the branches and leaves, tearing them out of his way.

If he ran fast enough, maybe he could escape the truth.

But exhaustion caught up with him; denial and grief only fueled so much.

He slowed down and found a log to lean against.

It wasn’t real, it wasn’t real, it wasn’t real.

If he kept that thought in his mind, maybe it would come true.

Nod’s body started shaking.

He’s not dead, he’s not dead, he’s not-

“He’s not dead!” The words burst from Nod with a sob. It felt as if a dam burst, the tears and sobs flowing forth like an endless, rushing river.

It couldn’t be, he kept telling himself, even as the sobs continued to choke his thoughts. He was the best Leafman Nod knew, the strongest, the bravest.

He would always come back from missions with stories for Nod, heroic and exciting adventures that Nod always wished he had taken part in.

Now that would never happen.

His father was gone and he was alone in this world.

Nod curled in on himself, hugging his knees close to his chest. His sobs had abated to sniffles, but tears were still making their way down his face.

His father was gone.

Nod would never see his kindly face again or feel the warmth of his embrace or hear his laughter whenever Nod made a fool of himself or hear him say how much he lo-

The thought wouldn’t (couldn’t) finish in his mind.

It was all too much; all of the pain he was feeling was wearing out what little resistance he had left. Nod could feel everything go quiet around him as darkness blanketed the forest and, wiping some of the tears out of his eyes, saw nothing recognizable around him, no way to get home.

It was just as well, there wasn’t anything he wanted to return to; nothing left for him. Settling on underneath a fallen leaf, hiding from everything, he closed his eyes, willing his tears away.

Nod fell asleep out there in the wilderness, hoping to wake up in a world where his father was still alive.


	2. Anger

Rage burned through Mandrake like an uncontrollable forest fire.

His only son, Dagda, whom he had raised from a larva all by himself, the child he loved above all else, was dead. Killed right in front of him by that bastard Ronin. At least he was able to rob them of their precious Queen in return.

Holding his son’s dying body in his arms, hearing his last words, had been too much for him.

“I’m sorry,” Dagda had whispered to him before the last of his life escaped him. He was dead before he could hear Mandrake respond with,

“No, my son, I am sorry.”

All his son had wanted was to make his father proud. And Mandrake was proud. Dagda would have been a zealous, formidable warrior, worthy of inheriting his father’s Boggan armies.

Now all he would inherit is the dirt he was buried in.

When they had returned to their fortress, all the Boggans had made sure to steer clear of Mandrake and immediately busied themselves with any menial task available. They knew the mission had been a failure, but even worse than that, their future leader, their king’s son had been murdered.

And so Mandrake had been left alone to bury his son, in a small patch of dying earth, close to the great ugly tree they had both called home. His screams of anger and frustration had reverberated throughout the silence of the fortress, the raging grief underscoring them impossible for anyone to ignore.

Standing over his son’s grave, Mandrake could not believe this was all that was left of his son. He had crafted a crude headstone, using Dagda’s mouse skull as a decoration. And, thinking of how proud his son had been to kill that mouse himself, how full of spirit and darkness and ambition he had been, always looking up at his father with admiration, Mandrake wept.

The only time in his life he could remember crying.

But these tears burned hot, sliding down his gnarled face, pooling into the nasty ground beneath him. He shouldn’t be crying over his son’s grave; his son should be with him, the two of them planning the next stage of their attack.

His son should be alive and all of those leaf-green bastards should be dead, buried in the foul earth like this.

When he returned to his room all he could think about was his son dying in front of him and Ronin, that self-righteous Leafman, calmly sending Dagda to his death. That he could just kill him, without any thought or effort. Gone, just like that. Ronin probably hasn’t even given Dagda’s death a second thought.

Mandrake could feel all of his rage boiling to the surface and with a harsh, guttural cry he went into an angered frenzy. Anything in reach, he destroyed, clawing at bark, breaking apart piles of bones, tearing away at any fur. All of his pain, his sadness, his wrath at the loss of his beloved son was channeled into destruction, hoping to no longer feel any of it.

When his temper started to wind down, he collapsed on the ground, heaving, looking for something else to destroy. The only undamaged thing was the last thing Dagda had worn, his furred cloak. Mandrake reached out for it, clawed hands shaking.

He had kept this for himself before he buried his son in the ground; he had needed something of Dagda to stay with him. Clutching it in his hands, he breathed heavily, the echoes of unabated anger inside him.  

“I will destroy them for what they did to you, my son. I swear that you will be avenged, even if it costs my own life,” he said, one last tear escaping him before rage burned the rest away.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been such a long time I've written anything for this movie, but I've had this idea brewing for such a long time that it seemed a shame not to finish it.


End file.
